


LIMITED SOUVENIR EDITION 



dbimcs Of Swartbmore 



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910 
opy 1 



By WALTER D. REYNOLDS 




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CLARION PUBLISHING COMPANY 
SWARTHMORE. PA. 



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SWARTHMORE COLLEGE 



CHIMLS 

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BYtVALTER. 
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Presented to 



with the best wishes of 



Copyright, 1910 
By WALTER D. REYNOLDS 



Press ot 

ALFRED M. SLOCUM CO. 

Philadelphia 



IGI,A273477 



.19. 



CONTENTS. 

The Swarthmore Girl 7 

Birth of Love 8 

The Blacksmith of Cobalt... 11 

Just the Sweetest 12 

Deacon Simms 13 

Evening .*. . . .♦. 15 

The Burial of Summer 15 

Derelict 16 

The Cleverly Mother 18 

The Broken Lily .19 

School-Days 20 

Waters of Marah 21 

Boy with Sunshine Face 23 

Chimes of Swarthmore ..24,25 

The Child of All 26 

The Book and Key 27 

Revisited 28 

In Deeds, not Years 30 

To be a Boy 31 

Youth's Reveille 31 

Little Arms 32 

Benjamin West 33 

The Azure of Youth 34 

The Lad of Kindling Eye ... 35 

God of Battles 36 

Little Boy Drummer 37 

The Man of the Furrow 38 

,. Worried Little Mother 39 

Michael at the Crossing 41 

The Smile on Mother's Face . 43 

Garnet 44 

Autumn 45 

Time 45 



POBLISmSR'S NOTICE, 



In tesnilag this Limltad Sovnrenlr Sdltien of *@»imes of Svarih- 
move't the pietblisfeers are smeh ez«tlfled to bs a&Xe to present to 
the eltizeaz of Swarthoere and the sany friend tA .%ks. toim and 
its ins^ltstlens a ohoise selectiea of ▼es>se (some of it sHd>lli^d, 
t^ the first time) from the pes of o^ir eetoem&i. former editor, 
vith whose nevsj^per work so ts&k^ are familiar. Itr. HeyzioXdB c&b 
the bappy Si^ of touching hom@ and hsaK theme a in a manner that 
aakes their preeerration desirable^ and we hare endsarored to give 
thea a typographical axid engrarer's setting that shall stake the 
little book a fit and inezpensiv® mes&@nto of the town and its 
sehools) one that «hall be both an inspiration and a reoeobiTaBeet 






*l5??aSr IS; ' 1910. ^sldent Clarion PtU>Ushlag Co. 



W^t ^toartfjmore (§ivl 

Oh, Swarthmore girl, sweet Swarthmore girl. 

Of every land you are the pearl ; 

Your dark-lashed eyes are full of dreams, 

Your head a crown of glory seems, 

Noble of brow and thought serene 

To challenge is but to be seen, — 

Sweet Swarthmore girl! 

If cultured intellect can tell 
Where all your meditations dwell. 
If gentleness supreme and good 
Can make your virtues understood. 
If purity can star-like shine, 
These, all, reveal your inner shrine, 

Sweet Swarthmore girl! 

The dimpled chalice of your face 
Is brimmed with dawn of woman's grace ; 
Your white pure neck aspires to rear 
Your countenance to heaven clear; 
Your pensive lips of ruby, rhyme 
Like crimson bars at sunset-time. 

Sweet Swarthmore girl! 

Oh, Swarthmore girl, fair Swarthmore girl 

You put the young swains' hearts awhirl ; 

Be careful lest your sweet life be 

A siren's maddening minstrelsy; 

From the high privilege of your throne. 

Make all the powers of Right your own. 

Sweet Swarthmore girl! 
March, igio. 



BIRTH OF LOVE. 

Abroad, the stillness like a visible thought 
Seemed but the person of some mystic presence, 
Took shape and stood immaculately clear. 
The embodiment of the beautiful in dreams. 
The scent of roses slumbering 'neath the trees 
Which stooped to kiss them in their modest ambush, 
Leaped on the breeze which dnly stirred, and moved 
Like incense in the worship of some God 
Upward and onward, as of magic wafted 
Into the soft bosom of the night! 

There was a sweetness which unwont, encompassed 

As unseen arms, the aspect of the night. 

And there were born, imaginative and lovely. 

As tho' they sped the suburbs of some happy sphere, 

Child-faces and sweet forms and pale glances! 

Responsive smiles and conscious thought 

Whose answers were as visible print, — 

The pure and perfect language of the sky! 

Was it by chance I strayed upon this hill 

Which, slumbrous with the heavy dews of night. 

Lay in that calmness only born of June? 

Youth, and youth's thoughts, and dreams akin to youth 

Sported about me like congenial elves; 

They builded for me heights and depths and raised 

Their Imagery till it seemed real as the stars 

Which pierced its tracery: June as a garden 

Gleamed within gemmed walls; her pillared gates, 

Weighed with the odor of her waxen flowers. 

Like scented pearls festooned o'er maiden's breast, 

Reared their fair stature to the moon! 

Upon some velvet moss beside the wall, 
O'er-hung with hawthorn and begirt with flowers, 
Cupid I saw all roseate in repose, 
Graceful and sweet and smiling as he slept. 
An arm above his brow, one on his bow, 
Whose end lay nestled in his puckering mouth, 
While on his lids a pensive shadow played 
The vanguard of new mischief in his wits. 

And as he waked not and the twigs above 
Bent low with dew-drops till his mirrored form 



Shimmered within, I reached and touched the spray 
Which showering down, seemed entering in his dreams; 
Couched on his breast they were as pearls to him, 
And he put forth a hand to gather, while his lips 
Formed and part formed words blithe at his fortune. 

Oh, what to do to waken Cupid now 

And verily let him think he woke unwaked, 

Troubled me much, until some amorous sense 

Called to my mind the remnant of a song 

That we have heard sung sweetly in the night. 

Which, naught but moonbeams and romance abroad. 

Entered our being with a kindly gait. 

Striking life's centres with a noble chord. 

Thus to my mind and lips the music woke 

And reckless of result, the notes arose, — 

Intense, subdued, reflective melody. 

So true it is that nature will assert 
Above encumbrance even of physical weight, 
Her deepest passion and her dormant power. 
That Cupid, at first notes attuned to love, 
Started erect with eyes still held by sleep, 
Tightened his bow and swung his quiver clear! 

Now, like the necromancer at his art, 

I stood surprised and baffled at my act. 

Speechless I stood for want of words to speak. 

Poised on a foot, unbalanced as in wit! 

At length in desperate strait, devoid of sense: 

"What think ye?" I asked, and he with midget wisdom, 

"Methinks the night's o'er lovely to be barren." 

"Barren? — Ye mean" — 

"I mean that Beauty waits on beauty, 

Where beauty is, there other beauties be. 

Where beauties go, where else should beauty follow? 

They go in clusters." 

"Boy, find me a beauty 

Fairer than this June, full of such smiles 

Such graces, gemmed as rich as she." 

"I will, — list now!" Then from the wood. 

From 'neath the columns of the moon-tipped grove 

The softest of sweet melodies arose. 

'Twas like the songs the Arabs hear in dreams 

Of their ideal heaven. Then came a face. 



A tear-dimmed, beauteous face, white to pallor. 
Burned with ruby lips; oval, even to high-arched 
Rounded brow. Dark eyes — none darker, 
Out-swelling with tears like limpid pearls. 

"Your way, my boy, your way, my own's o'erthrown; 
She seems the veritable reflex of this night." 

"A reflex? Ay, and more, joy's incomplete 

Without a previous sorrow; chords more grand 

When sprung from discord. Her song leaps from depths. 

So beauty's highest when 'tis clad in tears." 

Musing, I watched him as he raised an arrow — 

Mayhap it might miscarry o'er the mark. 

Perchance some subtle wind to turn its current 

Would foil the childish aim. But no. 

No shaft so sure as that by Cupid cast. 



It sped. And then, as tho' her heart was touched. 
The night took on a lovelier aspect yet. 
Soft quivering breezes, shot with minute stars. 
Laden with perfume, on the senses fell. 
While all the distance mellowing in a haze. 
Dropped in mirage, and some far scene beyond 
Hung in still beauteous state before us. 



It sped! And then the roguish lad sped, too. 

His shining shoulders and his merry eyes 

Bent on rare sport. "Gone for the arrow," I said. 

But as I watched, saw his plump form lie low 

Across her path. She, deep in new strange thought 

Came on, but saw him not, and stumbling fell! 

So sudden is the first known dawn of love! 

Yet, when she looked for what she stumbled o'er. 

She found it not, nor knew it to be love. 

But sighed, and smiled, and blushed as ne'er before. 



And Cupid, winged rogue, was crouching nigh. 

Casting coy glances at me, till I thought: 

"The boy hath meaning in each glance he gives!" 

So looking heartward with suspicion great, 

I found suspicion must fore'er depart; 

For there, so true, so soft, yet sharp withall. 

Imbedded deeply, there I found the dart. 



10 



What mirth moves Cupid that he rollicks so? 
Hath he a frenzy that he moves away 
In somersaults and wreaths his cheeks in smiles? 
Or doth the lovely night so charm him 
With all its splendor that his reason reels? 
Mayhap the last, for he himself doth reel 
Most mischievously leering at the moon! 
June, 1885. 

THE BLACKSMITH OF COBALT. 

Have you heard the curious story 

Of the nettled Cobalt blacksmith? 

How he hurled his hammer fiercely 

At the red fox in the copse? 

How he had to hunt his hammer 

And had missed the fox, but struck rock. 

Digging up a trail of silver 

Where it hit its angry gash? 

How he labeled his old hammer 

And his forge made an exhibit; 

How the blacksmith rode in palace cars 

And smoked a yard of leaf? 

But he still could make the sparks fly. 

For he blew another bellows. 

And his forge was not of charcoal. 

Nor his carpet iron-scrap. 

Well, well, we all are blacksmiths 
At no matter what our calling; 
We may stand among our iron-scrap 
And forge with all our might; 
And if a red thought enters 
To disturb our days of labor. 
We can swat it and be happy 
To see the swat alight. 

Then the precedent of Cobalt 
And its blacksmith's fair experience 
Make us positive, triumphant. 
In conclusions on results; 
We shall go and get our hammer, 
We shall turn a streak of silver 
If we miss what we have hit at 
And not miss what we have hit. 
February, 1909. 



11 



JUST THE SWEETEST. 

That baby girl down at my knee 
Looks up and smiles and crows at me, 
Brimful of fun and joy is she 

With twinkles in her eyes; 
Just two foot six in stocking feet. 
Pink apron tied around so neat, 
With thirty pounds of flesh so sweet 

You'd want to eat like pies! 
Just the sweetest! 

Her lash-hung eyes, wide open blue. 
Look up with depths you can't construe, 
But she can look you thro' and thro'. 

That little baby girl; 
'Oh, how she makes me blow and puff 
With piggie-back and blind-man's buff, 
Before she thinks she's had enough. 
Ferocious little pearl 

Just the sweetest! 

Her romps make her grow strong and sound. 
Of course her pa liked that, but found 
It made him feel like lying around — 

Wanted to read, you know; 
But then she thinks she'll ride his foot. 
Inspect his teeth and find their root, 
Pull at his hair and hunt for loot. 

And twist his nose, oh, ho! 
Just the sweetest! 

But she's a jewel though, is she. 
For when her mamma comes to see 
If she can end her circus spree 

And tuck her into bed; 
I'd rather see what then I see, 
Than be a potentate in fee. 
Great dukes and barons round my knee 

And big crown on my head — 
Just the sweetest! 

She kneels down softly on the floor. 
With mamma gently bending o'er, 
And tho' her tongue cannot implore. 
Her little head's a prayer; 



-12 



Oh, what great thought the angels may 
Perceive in that sweet, silent way, 
Go up to God and move his sway 
To keep us in his care, — 

Just the sweetest! 

Oh, baby girl down at our knee. 

Your smile, your love, your life, your glee, 

Your quaint, queer ways and pranks set free 

Our spirits bound by care; 
You make us wish to rise and learn 
The purer, better path; to yearn 
For simple living, faith less stern. 

And hearts like your heart there! 
Just the sweetest! 

December 10, 1894. 

DEACON SIMMS. 

He was a man whom all could well revere. 
Yet, o'er his grave were none to drop a tear; 
A man respected, reverenced, for whom yet 
More awe was felt, than love or fond regret. 

He many people knew, him all did know — 
Alas, alas, 'twas near as they could go. 

An ardent love for arduous enterprise 
Ne'er could invoke a blessing from his eyes; 
Not that he lazy was, but love of ease 
Induced a habit to become disease. 

His household place, who knew not? Was just there 
Dozing like sphinx within an easy chair; 
Or if he moved, he softly sought the hall, 
Leaned on the stair-rail, listened, that was all. 
He'd say he heard a movement in the loft; 
When told "not so," yet listened he full oft; 
And every day, full many times intent, 
He gently stood and barkened there, half-bent. 

Quaintly with proverbs saddled he his tongue 
That tid-bit wisdom might not be unsung. 
"A simple soul," quoth he, "and simple mind. 
Is simpleness not very hard to find; 
But simple living is no simple thing; 



13 



Such simpleness is prone to get a-wing." 
That said, he'd drop him to a gentle doze, 
Which further query failed to discompose. 

An innate peace expanded to his eyes 
Like twilight over sunset in the skies. 
To muse and count the brick-tiles at the door 
As tho' he ne'er had counted them before, 
Moving his cane in mystic runes around. 
Mumbling or talking — starting at the sound, 
Trilling child-songs in age's dubious voice, 
Choosing bright leaves, but to revoke the choice. 
Alternate smiling and in pensive mood, 
Weeping o'er smiles long calmed in solitude; 
These were the habit of his mind's employ — 
The sacred childhood of a second boy. 

A wrecked finance still bore him thro' the year, 
A shilling more or less, would start a tear. 
'Twas said 'twas like himself, so little blessed. 
So thin, he scarce could travel one-abreast. 

How oft his slim, familiar form has paced 
That rustic path, whose borders, sparsely graced 
By ragged remnants of the summer's leaves 
In the chill twilight of the autumn eves, 
Led him along reflecting till the night 
Stepped out in shadows, and he awakened turned 
Toward the West, whose fires lowly burned 
Casting his form enlarged within the light 
Upon the dark Bast. Thus would he stand 
Smiling and musing, 'neath his shading hand 
Gazing as if he viewed beyond the view 
Beholding spirits olden, proven and true; 
Communed, and dwelt on recollections dear 
Of things and persons of an earlier year. 

Good man! Like any object out of place 
We miss the placid presence of his face. 
There's something out of joint — we something lack. 
Arrange the chairs, go scan the yard and track. 
But no, alas! 'Tis Deacon Simms we ask; 
Him to replace would prove a futile task. 
'Neath marble calmly resting from his rest, 
Where time disturbs not, lies his peaceful crest; 
Above is sculptured quaint as ancient hymns: 
"Here lies, impassive still, good Deacon Simms." 

January, 1S85. 



14 



EVENING. 

Fire-flies dance with a ruby gleam 

Where the woodland shades repose in dream, 

The carved exquisite pungent gloom 

Seems but the modest evening's tomb! 

No pennons of the stagnant air 

Low droop to shield her — fainting there; 

No motion of its pulseless wings 

Responds to her sweet murmurings. 

To evening's desolate murmurings. 

Alone unmatched in beauteous grace 
Fair evening pleads — On her pallid face 
No smile but the smile of raptured love, 
For the day-beam fluttering faint above. 
Scarce known, the amorous word she sent 
Like tear-drops to the sad sun lent, 
As arms borne bare in twilight red 
She clasps her lover and bows her head 
In Stygian sleep o'er her beloved dead. 

February, 1885. 



THE BURIAL OF SUMMER. 

Something in the cool of evening, 
In the rustle of sun-tipped leaf. 

Speaks to the heart, of beauty 
That is near akin to grief; 

To the woe of her who bends over 
The dead form of boyhood brief; 

Smoothing the damp from his forehead, 

Closing his listless eyes. 
Kissing his lips, impulsive 

With turbulent memories ; 
Softly caressing his fair form, 

Crooning love's lullabies. 

Sad in the twilight landscape 

Where summer has revelled and gone, 
Far calls of Springtime linger 

With the lilac fragrance of dawn; 
With dew-laden gardens of roses 

And ponds with their lilies on. 



15 



Something of freshness and gladness. 
Yet hushed, and with life remote, 

Startles the tears in our eyelids 
And meaningless sobs in the throat; 

A barbarous sense of bereavement 
That throbs like the night-bird's note. 

The morrow shall bring the Autumn; 

Who thrills for her din and glare? 
Who welcomes the marshalled glories 

Of gaudy magnificence there? 
The boy of our heart's affection 

Lies dead in the chilly air. 

She will take his blood for her sumach. 
Her heather will bronze with his pain; 

Her foliage flaunt his heart-throbs. 
Her apparel flame from his brain; 

All the verve and joy of his morning 
She will bury in her train. 

Oh, tender and sweet was his boyhood, 
Too manly for such a doom; 

How fair was his adolescence, 
How fleet his voluptuous bloom! 

To be mocked with a bier of scarlet, 
And interred in a golden tomb! 

1910. 

DERELICT. 

In the annals of the sea 
Was there ever any tale. 
Blowing up from southern star. 
Or from out a northern gale, 
Half so strange with face so weird, 
Half so wan with fate so feared, 
As of ghost with conscience seared, 
In that legend of the sea — 

Marie Celeste? 

In the year of eighty-seven 

Sailed she forth from Gotham, bound 

For a European port. 

Crew and cargo safe and sound; 



16 



Crew of thirteen! — counting in 
Captain's wife and child — for sin, — 
Sin of Fate and portent's grin! 
Manned with thirteen, — out to sea — 
Marie Celeste! 

Sighted by a British bark 
When a fortnight knotted by, 
Wobbling on before the wind. 
An unfathomed mystery! 
Not a soul in stir or stress 
Not a signal of distress 
Not a living "no" nor "yes," 
Manless, pilotless, at sea — 

Marie Celeste! 

In the search and overhaul 
Not a sailor found aboard; 
Wheel and compass, binnacle. 
Sails all set, and cargo stored; 
At the davits boats are fast. 
At the forecastle and mast 
Skippers' laundry flapping fast. 
Dry, and flapping to the sea — 

Marie Celeste! 

All the cabin orderly. 
Log reporting balmy days. 
Sailors' kits all undisturbed. 
Not a struggle, not a blaze. 
Not a pirate's finger-mark. 
Not a stain or murder-mark. 
Not a soul up from the dark; 
Drifting silent on the sea — 

Marie Celeste! 

Omen's mystery and shroud 
Sport upon the waves below; 
Ocean voices shrieking loud 
Wail and fail from caves below; 
In the valleys of the deep, 
Where the heedless ages sleep, 
And the shades of ancients creep, 
Soulless on a shoreless sea — 

Marie Celeste! 

July, 1910. 

1^ 



THE CLOVERLY MOTHER. 

Only a vine-clad doorway, 

Out in the valley-land, 
Where nestles and sleeps the old farm, 

Where the clover blossoms stand; 
But a yearn-face leans toward the meadow. 

With eyes on the faraway; 
An old-time mother with yeast-crock. 

Stirring forever and aye. 

The crock in the crook of her elbow, 

The spoon in the good firm hand, 
The batter awhirl in the basin. 

In rhythm with all in the land; 
Mixing the batter for griddles. 

Stirring the mix for bread; 
Making old-time tea-biscuit, 

For hearts and for years that are dead. 

Over the fields come bird-songs, 

Out in the loam sinks the plow. 
The call of the crow and the chicken 

Mingle with moo of the cow; 
The fragrance swells from the lilac. 

The katydids drone till morn, 
The corn-tassels bronze the hillside, 

The snow blows over the com; 

But the mother, whatever the season, 

Still stirs her crock at the door, 
Stirring forever and ever, 

For mouths that are never more; 
Still peers the face to the meadow. 

Still listens for sounds that are still; 
While the sunshine of yesterday revels 

And swoons on the farm by the hill. 

She stood there after her bridal. 

With orange-blooms laid aside; 
She stood there after the cradles. 

And after her boy had died; 
She stood till storms were quiet, 

Till the house was vacant of song, 
Till her daughters had loved and mated 

And the world had gone along. 



18 



Only one left at her hearth-stone, 

The man of her girlhood day. 
Who came in his strong young manhood 

And carried her heart away; 
He sits in his chair by the night-fire, 

Or rests on the steps at noon; 
But she stands in the same old doorway 

And stirs her meal-time tune. 

Still stands the farmland paternal, 

Still stands the mother of old, 
Stirring the bake for tea-time, 

Stirring the moments of gold; 
Sometime a resurrection 

Of days that are gone will come, 
A rebirth of old affection. 

Resurgent of all her home. 
May, 1910. 



THE BROKEN LILY. 

The lily blooms with a death-pale face 
Under the night queen's pallid throne; 

'Tis love's first unrequited trace 

Blanched over brow when lips disown. 

'Neath her soft lash a glance she gave, 
Unfolding to the rude night-time. 

The heart-strings whose vibrations crave 
A loving touch and a tender rhyme. 

The lily blooms as the night declines. 
Lovely and lone 'mongst the deadly dew; 

More lovely as she more repines 
Over the flower that proved untrue. 

Dank and dark in her lowly bed 
Sweeter and purer in swift decay; 

Seeking the hand-clasp of the dead, 
A nobler beauty o'er-spans her day. 

The lily stands with her cruel woe. 
Memory breathing of earlier bloom; 

Viewing the beauty of others blow. 
Silently carrying hers to the tomb! 

July 9, 1884. 



19 




SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Oh, the golden, olden moments that we spent within your walls. 
They are full of precious memories that grateful heart recalls; 
They are full of living splendors that outlast the lust of years. 
They are full of luscious heart-throbs that are near the fount of tears; 
They are filled with glorious promise, they are half suffused with smiles, 
That are worth a million triumphs of our sunny afterwhiles! 

There the tutor sparred his classes; there involved, perplexing rules. 
Fagged our weary trains to languors till the tutor dubbed us mules; 
Then we woke with freshened vigor and we wrestled long and well. 
Till we heard the princely plaudit: "Henceforth, thou art 'Israel,'" 
Israel, with all his blessings, Israel with all his power, 
And we gained our higher purpose in the triumph of that hour. 

There the daisy and the buttercup worked coyly at their desks. 
And the sunflower and the jack-rose built their mental obelisks; 
There the toil and sigh were mingled and the sigh outran the toil. 
And the blushes and the hushes grew a mystery for spoil; 
For the lowly love that flourishes in class-room and in flowers 
Exhales its gentle fragrance till the douse of sudden showers. 

Oh, jewel-hilted moments v/ith their olden, golden joys! 
How faint the heart becomes recalling those jolly girls and boys! 
That dear old snub-nosed Tommy and the freckles on Marie, 
That wondrous pompadour that graced the head of wee Lucie; 
And the pen that pointed to the stars all right-side, up-side down 
On the ear of smudge-mouthed Charlie, the terror of the town. 

Now Charlie's in the pulpit and Tommy's in the law, 
Lucie is baking biscuit and Marie has learned to draw, — 
Not pictures, but upon the stage she draws her fellow-men. 
With arguments on woman's rights, and suffragettes, and then 
She points to all the pious boys who filled these walls with good. 
And clinches thus her dagger-thrusts with pleas for womanhood. 



20 



Clear waters in a shady brook, all pebbly thro' its deeps, 

A slippery spring-board on the bank where filtered sunshine sleeps; 

And bared to sun and breeze of June a shining-shouldered throng 

Of lithe-limbed boys with laughing shout and wild vacation song, 

Plunge into bliss that vies with joys of paradisial souls 

Of strong-framed manhood bathing in immortal swimming-holes. 

Oh, silver-crested, diamond-studded, golden, olden hours! 
Such ruby-tipped and honey-dripped, and dew-besprinkled flowers! 
The scarlet of your youthful days is bathed in pardon now. 
For the hand of time has brushed aside the errors of the brow; 
And the diadem of rectitude that slept within your breast 
Is gleaming with the beauty of the purified and blest. 
September, 1910. 




WATERS OF MARAH. 

Exodus XV., 23. 

(After a Sermon by the Rev. W. M. Woodfin, Pastor Swarthmore 
Presbyterian Church, and Moderator of Chester Presbytery.) 

Legend of waters of Marah 
And the tree that grew thereby, 

Telling in olden story 
Of pilgrims passing by; 

Pilgrims athirst and weary. 
Upbraiding their destiny. 

Vision of waters of Marah 
In the wilderness of to-day; 

It is the olden story 
Of pilgrimage astray; 

Of pilgrims athirst and foot-sore. 
All heart-sick by the way. 



21 



Bitter waters of Marah 

For souls athirst and faint; 
Railing upon their leaders, 

Voluble in complaint; 
Voicing the heart of unfaith — 

The burden of sinning saint. 

Ideals fallen and perished. 

Wells of the soul gone dry; 
Spiritless eyes, and shackles 

For souls exposed to die; 
Dreamless and sheenless, the brilliant 

Exuberant child of the sky. 

Blasphemy, shame and error, 

Cynical, frivolous cant, 
Christless endeavor and folly 

For pilgrims itinerant, 
O'erwhelmed, engulfed and sodden 

In wageless race and rant. 

Only the white hand needed. 
The absolute trust of a child. 

Who wanders around God's footsteps 
With the right of the undefiled; 

Who asks all the limitless blessings 
With the limitless frank of a child. 

Oh, bitter waters of Marah, 

How futile your tree there stands! 

No passionless grasp of the faithless 
Will sweeten your waves and strands; 

How sadly your leaves bud ever, 
Appealing to palsied hands! 

Vision of waters of Marah! 

Complaining Israel, 
Was not so dead in her trespass 

As saints of this Christless spell; 
For her leader conferred the balm-tree 

And the waters were sweet in the well. 

July, 1910. 



22 



BOY WITH SUNSHINE FACE. 

Brown-haired boy with sunshine face, 

Morning is in your eyes; 

Radiant brow and cheeks and lips, 

Quivering with surprise 

At all you see that stirs your soul. 

So lately come from far-off shoal, 

Whose Ages paused and left you there, 

A past-less self from some other-where. 

Except when your dreams unroll. 

And then — your dreams with your future blend; 

The noon is in your eyes; 

Exultant brow, flushed cheek and lips. 

Storming your golden skies. 

And all your heart is in your life. 

And all your soul throbs for the strife 

Where myriad others surged and sank 

Down to the pitiless ebb-weeds, dank. 

That umber the amethyst life. 

Brown-haired boy with sunshine face, 
Love-light is in your eyes; 
Love that is more than earth and sea. 
Burden of innocent prize; 
Wonderful bloom of ethereal flowers 
Garnishing gardens of earthly hours; 
Cherish and hallow and keep them sweet 
Nor let them fall beneath your feet 
Crushed flowers of Paradise, 

Little man so white of soul, 

Never you lose your way; 

Have good faith in your mother's God, 

All of your toilsome day; 

Then the broad road ahead, fair boy. 

Will blossom over with bountiful joy 

For the little man of sunshine face. 

Of winsome smile and cherub grace. 

Who came from so far away. 

August, 1909. 



23 




Cl^imesf c 




Swarthmore bells, pregnant bells, 
Melody of hopes and knells. 
Ruthless bucket in our wells ; 

Mossy curb, windlass grey, 
Drawing from our other day 
Autumn's pall, hopes of May; 

Ringing in, clanging out 

Memories in a jibe and rout, 

Memories from our deeps and drought; 

Long forgotten dreams of youth. 
Slumbrous themes, deathless truth. 
Sombre hours, things uncouth; 

Recollections of a pain. 
Golden days, harvest wane, 
Verve in ashes of the slain; 

Friendships drowned in seas of time, 
Enmities in callous slime; 
Darkened visions, once sublime; 

Tender thought, forms of love, 
Gifts and tokens from above, 
Meshed and sunk in treasure-trove; 



24 



btuartfimore 



Lutes unswept, desolate toys, 
Dust-begrimed and sodden joys, 
Passions spent, whirls of noise; 

Bucket brimmed with waters bright, 
Creaking up out of our night, 
Splashing over into light; 

Swarthmore bells, resonant bells, 
What a tale vour clangor tells. 
Marking time and sounding wells ; 

Pregnant melody of time, 
Resonant insolence of rhyme, 
Regnant reveille sublime ! 

Solemn strokes of days to be, 
Thrilling notes of industry. 
Noble toil and liberty; 

Tones of manhood's wage and war, 
Peals of power — the Conqueror, 
Shouts of Soul, Imperator! 

Swarthmore bells, regnant bells. 
Storied clangor in you swells. 
Calling souls in Swarthmore dells. 
August 28, 1910. 




THE CHILD OF ALL. 

High noon in blood 

Is strange as torrid noons. 
For man's the child of all the firmament; 

The molten ages 

Have poured down in him, 
To his disarmament. 

He knows the joy. 

The glory of the good, 
The sons of God pass ever in review; 

Yet dual persons 

Wail and thrill in him, 
And foil and thwart his view. 

A noble purpose 

And the far-on-heaven 
Are wedded to the grovelling to-day; 

And all his visions 

He would barter ever 
For red and yellow clay. 

Thus all his morn. 

And thus his day till even'; 
Unless along his pathway some fair hour 

The light of grace. 

The form beneficent 
Advance with peace and power. 

Then good men crowned 

With white and peaceful heads, 
Shall meet him in his daily toil and walk; 

And he shall see 

Unspoken peace defined, — 
The vanquisher of talk. 

He shall behold 

The fount of quietude 
Brimming the very turbulent cup of life; 

His soul enlarged 

Will labor with desire: 
'Give me this quiet life!" 

June, 1904. 



26 





THE BOOK AND KEY. 

At the tippity-tippity top of the hill, 

There's a house with not a sundry window-sill; 

There is not a pane in view, 

(They're all reserved for you). 

When you go to get salt on your tail. 

For you know it is customary ever 

If you go to catch a bird, you will never 

Gr«t a chance to stroke its wings, 

And find just how it sings. 

If you do not put salt on its tail. 

Now, dearly beloved Seniors, bear in mind 

You'll be getting there and have to go it blind, 

When you think you're winged for life 

With diploma and a knife. 

They'll put salt, just some salt, on your tail. 

Pot the Prof's have it all set up for you, 

You will think that your college days are all through, 

But they'll lead you out behind. 

To the Book and Key to find 

A little salt, just some salt, for your tail. 

So, when the crisis comes don't look back. 

Lot's wife, she turned to salt in her track; 

When they get you in that door 

They will fix you evermore. 

With some salt, just some salt, on your tail. 

It's a quite effective way to hold you down. 

When you think you own the world and half the town; 

They call it "Book and Key," 

(But that's just for you and me). 

They'll put salt, just some salt, on your tail. 



27 



And they'll tie a book and key to your tail, 

So you'll never know what it is to fail; 

The Book will make you wise, 

And the Key unlock your eyes. 

With some salt, just some salt, on your tail. 

September, 1910. 



REVISITED. 

'Tis said an evil spirit haunts 

The body of the dead. 
And rises up within the brain 

To brood or to retread 
The domain of the vanquished soul 

And view its traveled way; 
To scan the record of its life 

And gloat upon decay. 

I dreamed I stood beneath the arch 

Of a forsaken hall; 
No banquet-board was there outspread 

No sunlight there did fall; 
But deep, low-settled, ponderous gloom 

In ambush there had crept 
And stood like pinnacles of thought 

Or like a lute, unswept. 

I stepped upon the waxen floor. 

The move was not more heard 
Than rustle of mid-summer's breeze 

Or note of dying bird; 
A subtle echo passed along 

Toward its farthest bound, 
And faint returning, slow expired 

In vacancy of sound. 

Upon the masonry of the arch 

The ivy-moss had grown. 
Like some quaint lichen-fringed vault 

Sequestered and alone; 
Before me through the shaded way 

I saw with boding thrill. 
The figures of a strange device: 

A cup, and one to fill! 



28 



Upstarting at my near approach 

He grimly smiled and stood 
Outstretching one lank, ghastly arm, 

A fingered solitude; 
And where he indexed on the wall 

I gazed, and at near view, 
The impress of a mystery 

My rapt attention drew. 

Small pictures interwove, as tho' 

A life was in their spell. 
Seemed swaying, changing, quivering 

Like waters in a well; 
I saw the picture of a sin. 

The image of a woe, 
The imprint of a bitterness, 

Fair joy and passion's glow. 

O'er all the walls were markings 

From the thoroughfare of life; 
Some few were grouped in harmony. 

Some others burned with strife; 
And as I stood in wonder thus 

Before the strange design, 
A breath against my forehead came 

That stopped and startled mine. 

I turned. In one hand poised aloft 

The spectre held a glass; 
Within its compass, lurid, gleamed 

A liquid's ruddy mass; 
And slowly pouring in the cup 

With fiendish grin the whole. 
He said: '"Tis blood! And here — here was 

The palace of a soul!" 

March 31, 1884. 



29 



"IN DEEDS, NOT YEARS." 

Thoughtful boy, so straight and true. 

Stars of the summer morn 
Found their way to your eyelids sweet 

On the day that you were born; 
They're shining there in their soft blue light 

While your summer day is born. 

Sturdy visaged, fair-haired lad. 

Years are waiting for you, 
There are ways to learn and stairs to climb 

And work till the day is through; 
Heroic tasks for the little hands. 

Wide paths for the little shoe. 

How we would clasp your tiny hand, 

Guiding your pitiful feet! 
Shielding from storms that sweep your land. 

Temper your desert heat; 
But we go so short and you go so far 

And the happy years are fleet. 

Keep good hold on the right, my boy, 

Learn to be patient and strong. 
Remembering ever the olden tale 

That will cheer your life along; 
How the Lord was calling for Samuel, 

And his times to the Lord belong. 

Thus be the whole of your noble day 
And thus till your night falls prone; 

Till the sun is red in your sinking west 
And the cares of your day are flown; 

Till the dreaming boy and the earnest man 
Linger in deeds alone. 

August 21, 1910. 



30 



TO BE A BOY. 

To be a boy for one brief hour and know 
The bliss I knew full twenty years ago; 

Within my heart this eastern sash I lift. 
And feel the breeze of boyhood thro' the rift; 

Feel glow within my cheek, the sunny blood, 
Within sequestered heart the sunny flood; 

Feel firm-knit supple limbs and all the rage 

Of riotous thought, and recklessness, and wage 

Of decorous minstrelsy by decorous fingers played. 
Heaping ambition's calls against the blade! 

To be a lad for one brief day and know 
The forward look of twenty years ago; 

To hear the hum of industry around, 

And build fair castles in the cheerful sound; 

Within my heart to listen for the tone 
Of myriad tones that sounded then alone; 

To hear the voice that spoke and all was still. 
While zeniths smiled or stormed their varied will; 

To fold the lithe and gentle form of one 
Of soft blue eye, and love and gaze upon; 

To be a boy for one brief year and then. 
To be a boy forevermore — Amen! 

June, 1904. 



YOUTH'S REVEILLE. 

Dream on. God flings souls out 

To the far stars to test their pinions; 

Made in His crucible, dross-burned, 

Stained with tireless energy of sin. 

Refined with splendid chemistry of Heaven; 

Brawn-built, with virile force superlative 

Of soul-combat; drawn to wide longitudes 

Of mad desire; raised to far altitudes 

Of aspiration; stripped for the Marathon 

Of some dear goal beyond horizon's verge. 



31 



Dream on, — or will you dream? 

Asleep on dynamic chariots of God! 

Dream ? When dreams have showered their latest vision 

Of panoplied youth a-fleld? Dream, — 

When fibres thrill with morning-time of God? 

Awake! The reveille of Heaven 

Echoes and re-echoes with imperious call! 

Resolve, conceive, achieve, and conquer! 

Filigree your dreams with action! 

Go! Speed! Own! Your goal beyond the verge! 

August, 1910. 



LITTLE ARMS. 

When throbbing hours of labor and the stress 
Of immolate life and thronged loneliness 
Crowd cruelly, and silent storms arise 
To wreck your weak allegiance to the skies, 
Have you not known some strong reflection, bright, 
Of little arms around your neck at night? 

If there unfaith unhallows all your toil. 

If you have weakness in your life's bedrock. 

If your youth's hopes have yielded to the foil 

And all ideals are fallen in the shock — 

Is there no evening peace with soft, warm light, 

And little arms around your neck at night? 



What though your hand be palsied, your heart crushed. 
Your hope undone, which your horizon flushed? 
Your morning gone, your noon by sorrow led. 
And life's fair early friendships false or dead? 
Have you ne'er felt the trust and stay and might 
Of little arms around your neck at night? 



Oh, never lightly underrate the gift 

That Heaven sends with sunshine thro' the rift; 

Oh, never challenge God's great tender love 

That gives you gold for every loss you prove; 

Be thankful you are owner of the right 

To little arms around your neck at night. 

1904. 



32 



BENJAMIN WEST. 

(1738-1820) 

Quaker boy in garb of gray 
Dreaming by the quiet Crum, 
Feeding on the lily's light, 
Wooing rainbows till they come, 
Shaping forms on moor and dune, 
Harking to the lips of June, 
Catching visions of your Lord 
And apocalyptic sword. 
Protege of Red Man's sun 
Till your boyhood days are done. 



Quaker man with thoughtful brow, 
Carving out your dreams of youth, 
Touching canvas into life, 
Picturing historic truth; 
In the world of giddy men, 
Court or academic den. 
Catching visions of your Lord 
And apocalyptic sword, 
From the grottos of the past. 
From the crypt of history, 
Limning on the walls of life 
Your own immortality. 

August, 1910. 



WEST AND THE HOUSE WHERE HE WAS BORN. 



33 



THE AZURE OF YOUTH. 

The sun burns thro' the wooded hill 

And tips the campus sward; 
Red bars o'er gold and purple wold 

Like dreams, o'er campus sward; 
The gray starred east and zenith blue, 

The robins' twilight song, 
And down the path that leads to you 

My love, I hear the song! 

A warbling song that thrills and goes 

Past intervening years, 
That leaps the tombstones all between 

And rides o'er many tears; 
That tells of days and deeds in graves. 

Of hopes that sit in white 
Beneath the lofty architraves 

Of inner life and light. 

O song that tells of other songs, 
O light that shines at even', 

hopes that sit in inner white. 
And stars that shine from heaven! 

'Tis sweet you come at evening hour 
When Night crowds down the grass, 

And dew and damp and dark and power 
Oppress till Night shall pass! 

1 sit beside you, love; the song 
Is yours of long ago; 

The path that leads to you is out 
Where youth's fair flowers blow; 

Your lips are mute and yet the song 
Wells from the heart of you; 

Your life is mute and yet the strong 
Glad song is part of you. 

The quiet flow of noonday brooks, 

The light that floods the noon. 
Are in your heart and mine, dear love. 

And evening nears too soon; 
For morning beams are quivering there. 

The lark still soars and sings. 
And while we listen, everywhere 

Falls soft the sound of wings! 



34 



Wings of the morning — childhood's wings, 

The thrill of life's new day, 
Of breeze that sweeps across the seas 

Of birth and far away. 
A day like onyx cheers the sight, 

A hope like pearl, the heart; 
The azure of God's highest light 

Of Youth, will not depart. 

April 19, 1904. 



THE LAD OF KINDLING EYE. 

I sing the lay, the Marseillaise, 

Of love, and love supreme, 
The conqueror of life and death. 

The roseate child of dream; 
The master of life's sterner fate, 

The zephyr in the gale; 
The inner rhapsody of hate. 

The calm of inner vale. 

I sing the child that heaven, alone 

Of all her passions gave. 
To walk triumphant on earth's seas 

And spurn the doom of grave; 
The passion of the adoring throngs, 

That press the steeps of white; 
The passion of the naked pure 

That stand with God in light. 

The passion that to human heart 

No bound, no shadow knows; 
That tips the fingers of the dawn 

And maid with ruddy snows; 
That shapes the mother's chaliced face 

When first she sees her own — 
The image of her mother-soul 

And his — her other own. 

I sing the voice that calls to stars. 

Perchance if anywhere 
Its other self has wondered down 

A solitary stair; 
Or, missing accents of its like 

Hath plighted truthless vows 
And pressed sad lips and sadder breast 

And dreamed on misfit brows. 



35 



I sing, of all that heaven gives, 

The solace that is best; 
That croons and soothes at twilight times, 

And smooths the world's unrest; 
That cuts with nerve and binds with balm. 

That draws the deadly barb — 
A surgeon of the gentler sort 

Of nameless cap and garb. 

There is no bliss too pure for him. 

No destiny too high; 
No sceptred crown too good for him. 

This lad of kindling eye; 
And where he comes at evening hours. 

And where his fingers press — 
We know the splendor of his touch 

His royal power to bless. 

May 26, 1904. 



GOD OF BATTLES. 



God of battles bending o'er us. 
Grant Thy power may go before us. 
Into conflict and to peace. 
Thee, we implore! 

Thou hast taught and Thou has led us, 
Thou hast warned and Thou hast fed us, 
All we are, that Thou hast made us. 
Help Thou us still! 

Blood as rivers drench our story. 
Truth hath fallen, but risen in glory. 
Earth hath seen Thy gift of freedom. 
Give Thou us more! 

Home and country pledged forever. 
Sires and sons, forsake them never. 
Camp around our widening border, — 
God bless our land! 

June 30, 1907. 



36 



LITTLE BOY DRUMMER. 

My boy sat up on a dry-goods box 

With a drum as big as a drum could be; 

And the drummer was big — such a drummer was he 

That he cared not at all for his pa at his knee. 

But the drummer who drummed is the drummer for me 

And he drummed and drummed and said "Nobody corned! 

I want somebody to look at me!" 

So he sat and spat and settled his cap, 

And shaped his face with a brave grimace; 

A soldier, he, from some bloody place. 

Oh, how he hammered while none did see! 

For nobody watched my drummer but me, 

And he said, when he drummed, and nobody "corned," 

"I want somebody to look at me." 

The neglect it sank in his wee fair head. 

It worried him thro' all his busy noise; 

But the drum kept on with its dubious joys. 

For his thoughts were off with the other boys. 

With the dizzy lads who would not see; 

And he sadly drummed, while the big tears "comed," 

And cried, "Nobody will look at me!" 

Oh, little boy-drummer, your audience 

Is all made up of just one, you see; 

You sigh for others who pass you by 

And care not at all for adoring me. 

Ah well, drum on; it is human to drum; 

To cry: (and be glum when people don't come) 

"I want somebody to look at me!" 

1907. 



37 



THE MAN OF THE FURROW. 

Oh, down by the furrow that's over the hill 
The husbandman halts his panting team; 

At the turn in the corner, where white and still 
The noon looks down while the daisies dream, 
And the bob-o'-links call and the black hawks scream. 

He listens and looks to his fill. 



His knotty hands grasp the horny plow. 

His deepening eyes drink the faraway blue; 

A squirrel sits on a chestnut bough 

And saucily mocks, as squirrels will do; 

While the farmer thinks of his day half through 

And hears the soft crunch of his cow. 



His splendid form is encased in jean. 

His bare, broad breast is of manly brown; 

He's of rustic build, but of kingly mien, 
For he's wronged no peasant nor man of town 
And passion's chaos has not struck down 

His soul with its heaven's sheen. 



The odor of earth and the breath of the sky. 
The memory-laden mist of the vale, 

The echoes of woodland and stream nearby 
And a far fair face in a door, to prevail 
With an old-time bell and its meal-time tale — 

Till he hears and catches her eye; 



All these and more that are simple and poor 
Are rioting him in head and heart; 

While over the acres and past the moor 

The voice of the town with its fashion and mart 
Assails his ambition and leaves its smart — 

Till he sees the face in the door. 



Then the song of the bell and his hearth arise; 
It's the grain of sand and the grain of gold; 

And that sand is gold is a great surprise 

And that gold is not sand is a tale that's told 
To unwilling ears till ears are old 

And Cities of Gold arise. 



38 



Oh, down by the furrow that's over the hill, 
Down in the meadow and down in the loam; 

At the turn in the corner where kind and still 
The sun shines down on his little home 
That hedges him in that he may not roam 

He hears a voice: "Peace be still." 

March 3, 1904. 



WORRIED LITTLE MOTHER. 

Dainty lass with dolly cart 

What a care is yours! 
Burden of this mother sort 

Other things obscures; 
Have to keep her in the shade 

When the sun is shining; 
Have to wrap her close and warm 

When the wind is whining; 
Such a time to make her mind 

When she won't be quiet; 
Have the terriblest time 

Fixing up her diet. 

What a care to keep her clean. 

When she plays in dirt; 
Have to use a bar of soap 

On every blessed skirt; 
Have to lay her on her back 

And scrub between her toes; 
And what an awful face she makes 

When you wipe her nose! 
Have to teach her not to lie, — 

Stand her on her head — 
Dear, oh dear, she's such a trial. 

You wish that you were dead. 

Dolly has the unmonied look 

Like all dollies' eyes, 
Sunny smile that hurts good folk 

'Cept who make mud-pies; 
How to fit her for this life 

Of roly-poly dollars 
Keeps you sitting up all night. 

Humoring her hollers; 



39 



How to change that cherub look 

Into one of worry, 
Takes more wisdom than a book, 

Keeps you in a flurry. 

When she kneels down for her prayers, 

Doesn't kneel down straight; 
When you spank her, then she gets 

Prayers mixed up with hate; 
When you come to comb her hair 

How she snarls and yells! 
Almost makes you have to cry 

When she takes these spells; 
When you have to mend her clothes. 

Puts you in a fear, 
Dolly sure will bankrupt you 

'Fore another year. 

What a trouble dolly is. 

Bringing her up right; 
You're not certain you would care 

If she took her flight; 
Still, when she gets pale and blue. 

How you hug her fast! 
What would everybody do 

If she breathed her last? 
Mammas little, mammas big. 

Very much I fear 
You would have a lonely fit. 

If dolly wasn't here. 

1910. 



40 




MICHAEL AT THE CROSSING. 

Ding! Ding! 

Csh ! 

"Oh, helloh, Michael! Why did you shut me off! Let 
me over!" 

"Ye're betther a-standin' there with yer team than busted 
to smithereens on th' thrack!" 

"Oh, get out. You keep me standing here a half-hour!" 
"Ye can sit. Hi! there, McKinnon, kape off the thrack 
with yer bike. Don't git undher the gate, me b'y! It's down. 
I'll tell ye whin. Kape there!" 

There are doubtless worse temptations 
Than the track on Chester Road, 
There are doubtless worse concussions 
Than when English words explode; 
But for grounds of irritation. 
That would agitate a nation. 
And ferment the human juices, 
It's the gong that Michael uses. 
When it goes: ding! ding! csh ! 



We may have our weird illusions. 
And we do not mind intrusions; 
We may dream our abstract visions 
While we scorch among collisions; 
We don't mind policemen's beckon. 



41 



But we hate to come to reckon 
With the gong that Michael uses 
When he freezes up our juices 
With his: ding! ding! csh ! 

For our Michael at the Crossing 

Is an emperor at bossing; 

He can stop your scintillations 

While a block away, at rations; 

He can warn j^ou to a flurry 

With exaggerated hurry 

And then stop you at the crossing 

With his last grand act of bossing 

By his: ding ding! csh. . . . ! 

Oh, do not fight with Michael 
Though you feel quite out of sorts, 
Your auto may be snorting — 
You can take it out in snorts; 
He's a wicked combination 
With his gate and gong creation, 
You may think to scoop the track. 
But he has you on your back 
With his: ding! ding! csh ! 

But for milk of human kindness 
There's no potentate his equal; 
He is popular with parents. 
But that is just a sequel; 
Tender-hearted, horny-handed. 
He will see your tots safe-landed. 
And the smile that Michael wears 
Is a glint from Heaven's stairs. 
Though he does: ding! ding! csh. . . ! 

1910. 



:42 



THE SMILE ON MOTHER'S FACE. 



;7jjij jijprJrjj ij;ijijjJ^irf.r^ 



/G 



pfTfjJflTfjTjjjijjjJrff Jii'/jj'rff I I 



Keep the smile on mother's face. 
It is full of morning grace; 
Through the nights of childhood's days 
How it shone on all your ways: 
Shone for you through every frown. 
Beamed above when you were down; 
Was your refuge in defeat 
When you first knew bitter-sweet. 



Mwrff i m^^fnftfj pfrfjlii^^ 



The girl's smile's the pearl smile, 

The babe's smile sweet to trace; 
But the pure smile worth your while 
Is the true smile in rue — while, — 
The smile on mother's face. 

Oh, the smile on mother's face! 
How it cheers you in the race! 
Fragrant when its bloom is dead. 
Lingers like the sun's last red; 
Radiant when the world is dark, 
Glows when it has lost its spark; 
You may kill it — you alone — 
For that smile is all your own. 

Keep the smile on mother's face, 
Save it ever from disgrace. 
When you walk the ways of men, 
It goes, too, beyond your ken; 
In the office or the field 
'Tis your bonny silent shield; 
Just be true for mother's sake — 
Heart and smile are quick to break. 

October, 1907. 



43 



GARNET. 



^s i n! \ , i , , kfHfi ^ifiiihiffjJ^MTh ii 



The Garnet is the noblest flag 
That streams the College blue; 

It circumnavigates the rag 
Of every other crew. 



|t^ii ^>7ffflfTrp|frgffp|J-i4.?^^j^U^ 



Garnet! 

We're glad that you are you! 
And we are glad that we are we, 

And we'll all be true to you. 

The Garnet is the fairest flag; 

Sets off the Friendly gray; 

It shakes the shine from any rag 

On any kind of day. 

Garnet, etc. 

We'll float our garnet flag where'er 

Another dares to fly: 
'Twill put a blooming blister 

On the other fellow's eye. 

Garnet, etc. 

Our Garnet's not a sickly pink, 

Nor crimson like a crime ; 
Nor yellow like a pig-tailed chink, 

But garnet all the time. 

Garnet, etc. 

Our red is not the red of shame. 
Nor black, nor blue, nor brown; 

But when we hoist it at a game 
It means we own the town. 

Garnet, etc. 



44 



Our red's the red of good, rich blood — 
Red blood that swells our veins, 

And If you do not think It's good. 
Come out and get some pains. 

Garnet, etc. 

Our Garnet is the Jolllest flag 

That flies the welkin dome; 
With it we'll capture every rag 

And then we'll bring 'em home. 

Garnet, etc. 
July, 1910. 

AUTUMN. 

How golden is the light that autumn lays 
With lavish fingers on the faded heath! 

Into our musings steal the mellow rays 
Like tender thought of carven tomb and wreath; 

Late flowers vieing with the virile sprays 
Of spring's fled splendor heaped and sere, 
Of youth's pure dream and transient tear, 

Of dead emotions dying in their birth, 

So sweet, so fair, for mingling with earth! 

How gaudy are the leaves that court the light! 

Bewildered age loud calling for a toy! 
Rich hues of wisdom burnt with Folly's plight 

Who wooes the willing man as well as boy. 
No more in vernal blandishment the ray 

Falls through clear air in wildest, maddest joy; 
From shoals of indolence the hazy day 

Drops into night, till chilled the morn awakes 

Through purple distances and dewy brakes. 
September 1, 1883. 

TIME. 

So glide our days in Concord's Hall, 
Where hours are calm and life is still. 

That peace awakes to give us all. 
The breath of bliss her dreams distil, — 
Her quiet dreams. 

It matters not to transient man 
If storms descend or billows break; 

The surf-tormented shore we scan 
But find no remnant of its wreck — 

Its silent wreck! 



45 



It carries all into its realm, 
Nor leaves a token to our eye; 

A dusky hand directs the helm. 
We may not know its destiny, 

Grim destiny! 

In solitude or blatant fray 

What do we more than pass our time? 
We weave indeed a web to-day — 

The morrow wafts it out of time — 

Far out of time. 

Oh, some will laugh and some will smile 
And some bemoan a bitter blast; 

And some whom idle hours beguile 
Would fetter time's swift pinions fast. 
Would bind him fast. 

So drift we on. Oh, magic tide. 
Your burden is a charmed throng, 

Rapt, heeding in their slumberous ride, 
The wild allurement of your song, — 

Your syren song! 

June 17, 1883. 




46 




swarthmore: college campus 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



iiS s5?lU 



